


A Short History of the 14th Century

by agent_p_94



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12th Century, 13th Century CE, 14th Century, Crowley Hates the 14th Century (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Robin Hood References, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-26 21:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20749325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_p_94/pseuds/agent_p_94
Summary: "You win," said Aziraphale miserably. "I'll go to Scotland."Crowley snapped, and the manacles around Aziraphale's feet broke open. "Shake on it?""Oh, I suppose." Aziraphale shuffled across the cell and took Crowley's hand through the bars. "This is a one time thing, alright?" he said, looking Crowley straight in the eye. "Due to, ah, unique circumstances."Crowley grinned. A snake's tongue flickered in and out of his mouth. "Course," he said. "Wouldn't dream of asking again."(Spoilers: He asks again)To understand why Crowley hates the 14th century, you have to go back to the beginning of the Arrangement...





	1. In which Aziraphale agrees to the Arrangement due to an unexpected shortage of miracles

_ Nottinghamshire, 1193 _

“Angel,” said Crowley, leaning his arms on the rusted iron bars of Nottingham’s jail, “is that you in there?”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his itchy friar’s robes. “Perhaps,” he admitted.

Crowley laughed. “I should have guessed. Swordsmanship with an appetite. You couldn’t have come up with a better name than Friar Tuck?”

“It’s a spot more creative than ‘Sheriff of Nottingham,’ ” Aziraphale snapped.

The demon shrugged, spreading his arms wide. “Didn’t have much time. I was meant to go to John’s court, until we got wind of this Robin fellow doing good works all through the North.” He squinted at Aziraphale. “What was that word you used? Fomenting?”

“Yes, well,” said Aziraphale, “that’s all over now, I suppose. He’ll be executed, and I’ll be…” He shivered. “Discorporated.”

“Discorporated?” Crowley repeated. “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

“You set the terms!”

“Oh.” Crowley squirmed a little. “That wasn’t me. That was Guy. Bit murdery when he misses breakfast.”

Aziraphale gave him a skeptical look and then returned to contemplating his woes. “It’s going to be dreadful,” he moaned “ _ Mounds _ of paperwork. And Michael’s had it out for me ever since that business with the Greeks.” He tugged at the rope belting his robes together. “I don’t even know if they’ll  _ give _ me another body.”

“Angel,” Crowley drawled, “leaving Robin aside, are you forgetting that you can just miracle yourself off to the Maldives?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Aziraphale crossly, “it’s just that I - that I --”

Crowley waved a hand for him to continue.

“That I can’t!” Aziraphale burst out.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot so far up his forehead they almost left it entirely. “Can’t you?”

“No!” Aziraphale, twisting his hands together, looked absolutely miserable. “If you  _ must _ know, I’ve already used all my miracles for the month.”

“You have an allotment?” said Crowley, who miracled so often he’d likely been through ten allotments in the past hour.

“It’s one of Michael’s new initiatives,” Aziraphale mumbled at the floor.

“Ah. Michael.” Crowley pronounced the word in much the same way as a human might say, “Ah. Beelzebub.” “How’d you use them up, anyway?”

“It could hardly matter to you,” said Aziraphale.

“Go on,” said Crowley. “I have to know how to trap the next angel they send down here.  _ Monthly allotments _ . Wish I’d thought that up myself.”

Aziraphale gave him a sharp frown. “I suppose you’re already planning your promotion, then.”

“Oh, come on, angel,” said Crowley, “I told you, the execution was Guy’s idea.  _ I _ was for taking all the money and exiling you to the Scottish moors.”

Aziraphale looked even more uncomfortable at the idea of Scotland.

“It was the arrow, wasn’t it?” said Crowley. “I knew no human could shoot that straight.”

The angel nodded at the floor.

“Ha!” Crowley laughed, pointing a finger at the sky in triumph. “Good thing I made him do it three times then. But why’d you use  _ all _ your miracles? Didn’t you know it was a trap?”

“Of course it was a trap,” said Aziraphale. “But…” He bit his lip, unable to say anything else to the demon.

“But what?” Crowley prompted.

“Crowley, she’s  _ pregnant _ ."

“ _ Michael? _ ” said Crowley, aghast.

“Marian!”

This made significantly more sense. Still, “Marian? She’s been in the castle, hasn’t she? When did they even --”

“I thought, if he won, they’d let me marry them so she won’t be completely destitute," said Aziraphale, practically begging for reassurance. Crowley rapped on the cell bars and pondered the meaning of "destitute."

"I'm not sure that's entirely a  _ good _ deed," he said, more to tease the angel than because he actually disagreed. "What does Up There think about children born out of wedlock?"

"Oh, stop," said Aziraphale, turning away. "Haven't you got peasants to rob or something? A discorporation party to plan?"

"A party?"

"Well, yes - bit of a celebratory moment for your side, isn't it, discorporating an angel?" he asked bitterly.

Crowley sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Celebratory" was far from the adjective he'd choose. "It's a headache for me, too, you know," he said. "Nearly equal paperwork. Hastur's had it out for me since I pointed out his toad's a bit scrommy."

Aziraphale's nose wrinkled up. "Scrommy?"

"Yeah. You know." Crowley wriggled his fingers in an attempt to pretend the word had a legitimate definition. "Scrommy. Anyhow, I'd rather not bother."

The angel clearly didn't believe him. Crowley tapped a foot on the floor, thinking of how to convince him. Inspiration seized him. If he played his cards right, he could kill two birds with the same miracled arrow. "Listen," he said, "you remember what I said in Wessex? About cancelling each other out?"

Aziraphale looked up suddenly, disapproval written all over his face. "I thought I made my position quite clear."

"I'm meant to be in Scotland next week," said Crowley over him, "tempting the justicar. Nothing major, just a few bribes. He's already most of the way there, from what I hear."

"I don't see what this has to do with --"

"Unfortunately, I'm a bit of a wanted man in Scotland. Long story. But I'd been planning to steer clear for a few more decades."

"Crowley," said Aziraphale sternly, "you cannot possibly be suggesting --"

"If," said Crowley, holding up a finger to silence the angel, "someone were willing to go to Scotland  _ for _ me - and, like I said, this temptation is kid's stuff, you likely wouldn't have to do anything at all - I might  _ consider _ doing that individual a miracle in return."

Aziraphale slumped against the wall, but he didn't immediately say no. "I hate Scotland," he muttered.

"It  _ is _ damp," said Crowley.

"And the  _ haggis," _ said Aziraphale miserably.

"Think of it this way," said Crowley, "if you're discorporated, you won't even be able to taste haggis anymore."

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. "You'd free Robin, too, wouldn't you?"

"Course," Crowley shrugged. "Hardly counts as a miracle otherwise."

"And Marian?"

"What, did she get herself locked up, too?"

"You won't - chase her out, or anything?"

"I won't tell anyone she's pregnant, if that's what you mean," said Crowley. "Does this mean you'll do it?"

The angel banged his head against the cell wall and sighed. "I don't suppose I have much of a choice."

"Nah, you could always go for discorporation. I hear leaving the body is a wild ride."

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and forced out the word. "Fine!"

"Fine what?" said Crawley, cupping his ear.

"You win," said Aziraphale miserably. "I'll go to Scotland."

"And?"

"And tempt the justicar."

"And?"

"And what, Crowley? I'm not doing any more tempting than I have to, I'll tell you --"

"Nothing, I just wanted to see what you'd come up with." Crowley snapped, and the manacles around Aziraphale's feet broke open. "Shake on it?"

"Oh, I suppose." Aziraphale shuffled across the cell and took Crowley's hand through the bars. "This is a  _ one time thing,  _ alright?" he said, looking Crowley straight in the eye. "Due to, ah,  _ unique circumstances _ ."

Crowley grinned. A snake's tongue flickered in and out of his mouth. "Course," he said. "Wouldn't dream of asking again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun researching the 12th/13th centuries for this - it's possible I spent more time in a Wikipedia hole than actually writing. Some highlights:
> 
> \- (Background: King Richard III went on a crusade and got himself kidnapped on the way back; his brother John took power, setting the stage for the Robin Hood legend)
> 
> \- While Richard was being held for ransom in Austria, John and the French King Philip were raising a counter-ransom to keep him in Austria while loudly proclaiming how upset they were at his death
> 
> \- Richard had done The Most to keep John from taking over his kingdom when he went on the crusade, giving him practically half of England, and John STILL sold him out the second Richard was gone
> 
> \- When Richard's mom (who had an ongoing rivalry with Richard's dad + John) eventually raised enough $$ to ransom Richard, Philip wrote John, "Look to yourself - the devil is loose"
> 
> \- When Richard got back, he forgave John, saying he was "merely a child who has had evil counsellors." John was 27.
> 
> \- Richard did take back all of John's lands with the exception of Ireland, assuming, I guess, Ireland wouldn't cause England any trouble (...)
> 
> \- Meanwhile Richard did go to war against Philip, which John continued after Richard's death
> 
> \- By some accounts, Philip was actually Richard's ex-lover, making this one of the worst break-ups of all time
> 
> \- Richard was killed after basically daring some guy to shoot him - he was walking around a besieged castle with no armor, saw a soldier with a crossbow and a frying pan, thought it was funny, thought it was funnier when the guy aimed the crossbow at him, and then did not think it was funny anymore when the guy's neighbor actually fired his crossbow and hit Richard
> 
> \- On his deathbed, Richard pardoned the crossbowman, but the second he died, his counsellors flayed and hanged the guy anyway
> 
> \- John went on to be a terrible king, but we did get the Magna Carta out of it
> 
> Hope this entertains you as much as it entertained me :) Wikipedia starting points for further reading:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_I_of_England  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John,_King_of_England


	2. In which it is not a one-time thing

_ Sicily, 1228 _

“ _ Another _ crusade? What’re we up to now, twelve?”

“Six, I think.”

“What do they think the point is? Does your lot put them up to this?”

“I’ve told you, I can’t comment on official policy.”

“Is that a yes? There’s a lot of murdering that goes on, you know, you can hardly get behind that.”

_ “I’m _ certainly not behind it. The last one was worse than dreadful. All those poor people in Cairo.”

“Yeah, poor murdering soldiers, what a shame. Anyhow, what’d you come to me for? Trying to get a leg up on the opposition’s schemes?”

“If you must know… I… Well, I’d really rather not. Go, that is. On the crusade.”

“...Angel.”

“Oh, forget it. Forget I said anything. Goodbye, Crowley.”

“No, no - wait. I’m just trying to understand. Are you suggesting... what I think you’re suggesting?”

“...well. I  _ did _ go to Scotland, last time.”

“Syria’s a right lot farther than Scotland.”

“It’s much less damp.”

“Mm. When you put it that way.”

_ Vatican City, 1240 _

“I simply don’t understand why anyone would think these endless Crusades are more important than the Mongols.”

“D’you really think they could beat the Mongols, even if they tried?”

“Oh, probably not. I’m surprised you’re here, instead of gloating up in Kiev.”

“Gloating? Angel, I assure you, I had nothing to do with that.”

“It was very evil.”

“ _ Very _ . Over-the-top. Blew straight past sacking and into - into - what’s worse than sacking?”

“I hear they’ve taken Hungary, too. And they’re moving on Vienna.”

“Desecrated? Is that holy sites only?”

“Are you even listening?”

“Yeah, are you? What d’you think about demolished?”

“It’s ravaged, Crowley.”

“Ravaged! That’s it. Yeah. And Vienna’s next.”

“That’s what I just…”

“I’m meant to be in Vienna, actually. Month after next.”

“What a coincidence…”

“In  _ February _ . Dead of winter. Urgh.”

“The Alps are lovely in the winter.”

“Yeah, well, how about you go, then, instead of me?”

“Me? Support the Mongols?”

“Well… no. I reckon the Mongols’ve got all the pillaging and plundering down pat. You’d just have to throw in a miracle or two to make it look like you’re doing something.”

“...is that your normal method of operation?”

“Yeah… Humans nearly always get there before me.”

“Hm.”

“What’d’ya say, angel? Fancy a trip to Austria?”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Please? You owe me from Syria.”

“...well…”

_ Venice, 1271 _

“Chrism.”

“Bl - curse you? Bit hostile. I’ll work on it.”

“No, chrism. It’s another word for myrrh. Holy oil.”

“He wants the Polos to go a couple thousand miles for a bit of oil?”

“It’s not just any oil. It’s been consecrated. Not that I’d expect a demon to understand the difference.”

“Course I do - one kills me, one doesn’t. Anyhow, I expect you’ve been sent out with them, then? Spreading the Good News to a new land?”

“And I expect you’ve been sent to postpone it?”

“Eh, it’s either me or Ligur. You’ve met the Polos, haven’t you? Tutoring or… something?”

“Yes, I’ve been tutoring Marco. Quite a bright boy. He’s up to four languages now.”

“Oh, really? That’ll help him against the bandits.”

“Crowley! There’s more to life than fighting, you know!”

“Tell that to Ligur…”

“Have you ever been to China? Mongolia now, I suppose.”

“No, I haven’t, have you?”

“I hear Shangdu is becoming quite the metropolis. I imagine they’d have all sorts of interesting new inventions and things.”

“...Angel…”

“The whole Silk Road, really. It’s a - it’s a potpourri of all the interesting bits along the way.”

“Angel, how long have we been friends?”

“We’re  _ not _ friends!”

“How long have we known each other, then? If there’s something you want to say, just say it.”

“...well…”

“Would you like me to go for you, is that it?”

“It’s just… well… the Mongols. I’d really rather not do any more Mongols.”

“I don’t think this lot is the pillaging lot. S’pose it is my turn, though.”

“You’ll go?”

“Yeah, don’t bother thanking me, it’ll be your turn to hit up Australia next. Now, which languages am I supposed to have learned?”

_ Indeterminate _

“We’ve called you here to commend you, Aziraphale, on a job well done.”

“Me? Really?”

“Yes, you! You’ve been hitting your targets of Good Deeds with a record low average of miracles consumed.”

“Have I?”

“It’s really remarkable. Why, you’ve opened communication between the Pope and Kublai Khan using hardly any miracles at all! Let me tell you, some of us Up Here were getting a little worried about the spread of the Mongol Empire, but now it seems we’ve got nothing to worry about, right?”

“Well…”

“Ha! Always so modest. Anyway, as a token of our appreciation, please accept this medal.”

“Oh… It’s got your face on it. Lovely.”

“Obviously - it’s an award from me, isn’t it? Here, put it on. Let’s get a portrait, shall we? I’m so  _ proud _ of you, Aziraphale! Keep up the good work!”

_ Also indeterminate, but aggressively _

“You’re late, Crowley.”

“Yeah, sorry, your viciousness, had the time zone wrong. All that traveling, you know? Scrambles the brain.”

“We don’t have time zzzones in Hell, Crowley.”

“Don’t you? My bad, must’ve remembered wrong. Anyway, what’s up?”

“You’ve been very bad, Crowley.”

“The good kind of bad or the bad kind of bad? Always hard to tell with you people.”

“Both. You’ve been doing lotzzz of bad deeds.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, it’s bad, but it’s good that it’s bad. Or by bad deeds, do you mean good deeds, which are bad, for a demon? Do you see how confusing this is?”

“Shut up, Crowley.”

“...alright.”

“As I wazzz saying. You’ve been doing lots of bad deeds. Almost too many bad deeds. It’s suspiciouzzz.”

“This is not a very motivational performance review, if that’s what you’re going for.”

“I  _ said _ , shut up, Crowley.”

“Yes, you did say that.”

“Crowley!”

“Sorry! Sorry. My lips are sealed.”

“You’ve been traveling more and performing miraclezzz at a higher rate. Any reason?”

“...”

“Talk.”

“Just dedicated to the job, your revoltingness. Can’t confine temptation to one hemisphere, can we?”

“I guezzz not.”

“Plus, I don’t know if you’ve seen Ligur lately, but the tropics  _ really _ don’t agree with him. His stomach’s gone all mewly.”

“Crowley.”

“Yes, your revered cruelty?”

“Don’t make up words.”

“Right, your malignity.”

“I still think it’s suspiciouzzz. Something should be done.”

“What, can’t a demon do a good job around here without a second Fall? Or a bad job, I guess. A good job at being bad.”

“...Leave, Crowley.”

_ Neva River, 1301 _

“Thank heav - thank hell - Aziraphale!”

“Oh, it’s you again.”

“Yeah, well, takes a while to go to Asia, doesn’t it?”

“Would you like me to apologize?”

“Nah, your loss. You would’ve liked the skewers. Do you do spicy?”

“Is that relevant?”

“Dunno. Guess not. Anyway, glad I caught you. I need a favor.”

“Crowley, you’re a demon. I’m not doing a demon a favor.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before, has it?”

“Those weren’t favors. Those were…”

“...favors?”

“...tasks performed in the service of efficiency.”

“Well, whatever you want to call it, I need one.”

“What do you want, Crowley?”

“Nothing much. Nothing at all, really. Hardly a fav - task performed in the service of efficiency.”

“ _ What _ , Crowley?”

“Ah - well. See that ship there? The one with red sails?”

“The one that’s fleeing the harbor?”

“Yeah, exactly. Thing is, I’m s’posed to be on it.”

“Well, why aren’t you?”

“Got lost. Overslept. Doesn’t matter. Anyway. Would you mind just turning it around so I can, y’know, hop aboard?”

“Can’t  _ you _ do it, then? You know I’m short on miracles.”

“Ah - not at the moment, no.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Please, Aziraphale? It’s got to be now, Beez is breathing down my neck for some reason.”

“Can’t you just catch the next one?”

“It’s the last one out. Novgorod invasion and all.”

“Yes, I’m quite put out about it. The Swedes had such a  _ nice _ bakery here.”

“...In the middle of a fortress?”

“Well, it’s cold, you know, they have to have something to get excited about.”

“Can you please hurry up, angel? The ship’s nearly gone.”

“Actually, Crowley… there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fun history! Keeping it short this time:
> 
> \- There were SO MANY CRUSADES. Bajillions of crusades. I picked the 6th crusade because it was mostly diplomacy and not a lot of fighting.
> 
> \- The 6th crusade's leader, Frederick II, was excommunicated FOUR TIMES and labelled the Antichrist by the Pope, and he pretty much ignored all of this and went off to the Holy Land anyway
> 
> \- (How do you even get excommunicated four times?)
> 
> \- Half of the 1200s were just people getting excommunicated and going on Crusades. The other half was Mongol invasions. The Mongols moved insanely fast.


	3. In which Aziraphale has no regrets (none) (zero) (negative, in fact)

_ London, 1301 _

Aziraphale poured himself some wine and tried to calm down. More accurately, he tried to convince himself he was already calm. There was no reason not to be calm. In fact, there were more than usual reasons to be calm. No more checking over his shoulder for Gabriel to throw down a lightning bolt after each tiny temptation. No more agonizing over increasingly shallow justifications for his actions. No more loitering around unsavory locations until he ran into a certain unsavory demon after each travel assignment - not, of course, that he’d ever admit to such loitering. He wasn’t seeking out Crowley. Their paths simply happened to overlap. On a fairly consistent basis. Entirely by chance.

Somehow, the wine had disappeared. He poured himself another glass. He’d unearthed this vintage on his most recent trip to the papacy - the only highlight of the trip, really. He was getting very tired of going to Rome. People were always arguing and getting themselves into these unnecessary crusades. It was the heat, he thought. If the papacy would move itself north, it might behave a little better.

As he approached his third glass of wine, he was forced to admit to himself that it was not very good. Shame England and France were at war again, or he’d have nipped down to the market for that delightful Benedectine wine. Crowley had smuggled in a whole case last time he’d been in London, as a thank-you for the business in Vienna. Aziraphale supposed he couldn’t expect any more cases anytime soon. 

But that was alright, he told himself firmly, pinching his nose as he sipped his fourth glass. Good deeds were more important than good wine. He set his glass down firmly atop the medal, distorting Gabriel’s radiant smile. He’d left the medal out to help him maintain his resolve. Every glimpse of golden teeth reminded him of his deception. When Gabriel had broken the news of his commendation, it had taken all of Aziraphale’s strength not to confess on the spot. Honestly, he might have, if not for fear of what Hell would do to Crowley in return.

Well, it didn’t matter anymore. They were both safe. Safe from their respective sides, and safe from each other.

He drained the last of the wine and settled into his latest list of assignments with an almost truly contented sigh.

_ The Channel, 1315 _

Aziraphale did not want to go to Spain. Things were bad enough in England. When there wasn’t even enough food for the king, the peasants had no chance. Aziraphale had been trying to miracle enough endless loaves of bread to make up for some of the lack, but Michael kept reprimanding him for accidentally getting sainted. “The whole  _ point _ is that they know it’s endless,” said Aziraphale. “Otherwise, they won’t share, and I don’t have enough miracles to make one for all of England.”

Aziraphale had been hoping this hint would raise his miracle allotment. Instead, Gabriel had reassigned him to Spain, to “check in on this Reconquista I’ve heard so much about.” Aziraphale could not imagine where Gabriel had heard anything about the Reconquista. He himself hadn’t known much about it - he’d been too preoccupied with England’s wars. He’d been trying to study up, but there were so many families involved, and he had a hard time keeping them all straight. Were Sardinia and Corsica part of Aragon now, or was anyone taking the pope seriously anymore? And how had Sicily gotten involved in all this? It was all a muddle. 

And why, after all, did Heaven think it needed to be involved in more conquering? Hadn’t they had enough of that with the Crusades? Aziraphale had been to Morocco, and he’d thought the Moors quite nice. He didn’t see why he was now supposed to help Spain and Portugal throw them out like used bath water. It seemed rude.

The ship lurched, and Aziraphale nearly tumbled over the rain-slick railing. His stomach lurched uncomfortably. “Oh, bother,” he said, wishing he’d had one less scone before the start of the journey. 

A voice in his head - a dark, dim voice; the kind of voice you squashed before the Metatron could overhear - whispered that he could very easily avoid any further unexpected (and unnecessary) voyages, if he agreed to a few simple deeds in return. “No!” said Aziraphale aloud. “Absolutely not. The Arrangement is  _ finished _ .”

“You tell ‘im,” said one of the sailors, clapping Aziraphale on the soldier so heartily that Aziraphale almost fell off the boat again. Aziraphale smiled weakly and tried not to look at the roiling waves around them. He wasn’t shirking his duties any longer. The Spanish needed his blessings just as much as the English. He was doing what any good angel would do.

Besides, he thought, brightening, while he was there, he could finally try some of that marvelous paella.

_ London, 1348 _

In London, the world was ending. Bodies were stacked on the streets and piled outside the city walls. The moans and shrieks of the dying rose above the clamor of church bells. Those lucky few - fewer and fewer - who had not yet caught the disease had barricaded themselves indoors. London was a shadow of itself, the markets closed, the alehouses shuttered. They’d thought the famine bad, but the famine left glimmers of hope that food might be found. The plague defied hope. Only a miracle could save one from its inescapable death sentence.

Down by the Thames, an increasingly desperate angel was attempting just such a miracle. He hadn’t been able to find a cure - or, rather, he hadn’t the strength to cure all of Europe in one go - so he’d resorted to curing one neighborhood at a time. He pulled his hood tighter over his head and scanned the riverbank for any watchers. If anyone found out what he was doing, he’d be mobbed in a heartbeat, and he hadn’t the strength to cure all of London in one go, either. He had tried, and it had knocked him out for a good three weeks. He’d also tried miracling some medicine that could be reproduced by the humans; purifying the water supply; dampening the rate of contagion; and even killing all the fleas in the city, at which point Gabriel had appeared to inform him that wholescale genocide, even of insects, was perhaps not the most angelic move. 

Aziraphale was at his wit’s end. He didn’t understand why this needed to happen. The humans had their moments of darkness, of course, but they’d been making such progress. The Silk Road had brought an explosion of curiosity and invention. He’d even started to hope that Europe might adopt China’s printing press. But now, with half of Europe sickened, he wasn’t sure there would be enough people left to write books to print. He tried to remain optimistic. This clearly wasn’t Armageddon - surely Gabriel would have sent a note. And the humans had survived everything history had thrown at them so far: the Flood, a lot of wandering in the desert, the Fall of the Roman Empire. As the labored breathing of the dying around him shifted into a death rattle, though, he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of doubt.

He’d asked Gabriel - well, he’d sort of mentioned sideways to Gabriel - that he didn’t entirely understand why the plague had to happen, and Gabriel had gone apoplectic. He’d tried to reassign Aziraphale again, to some island in the South Pacific. Aziraphale had made it about three days before he’d decided the humans had everything under control there and retreated to London, where his angelic talents were actually needed. Really, sometimes he thought half his assignments were unnecessary. He’d spent most of the Reconquista tracking down the best paella in Valencia as a (failed) distraction from all the infighting and forced conversion, and look where Spain was now. He’d thrown in a couple miracles to make it look like he was doing something, but he couldn’t help but wish he’d been able to stay in England, doing something  _ real. _

And now he was back, in the midst of the plague, trying his best to quash the slightest hint of a doubt. He was being ridiculous, of course. Angels shouldn’t -  _ couldn’t _ \- doubt. Everything was proceeding according to the Great Ineffable Plan. They’d look back when it was all over and trace the path of ineffability through the ages: of course the earth had needed a plague, because it had inspired so-and-so’s illustrious memoir, which had later driven so-and-so to turn to a life of charity, which had saved so-and-so many eternal souls. It would work out in the end. God did not play dice with the universe.

If Crowley were there - which he had been, during several similar conversations Aziraphale had had with himself after events such as the Flood, a lot of wandering in the desert, and the Fall of the Roman Empire - he would undoubtedly scoff, “Where have  _ you _ been?” Aziraphale half-expected to summon the demon’s drawl from beneath the docks with the thought, but Crowley didn’t appear. Now that he thought about it, Crowley hadn’t appeared in a while. Usually, he was hard-pressed to avoid the demon. Crowley had a habit of showing up when Aziraphale was in a tight spot or otherwise embarrassed, but Aziraphale had narrowly escaped being murdered by Mongols, double-crossed by the Irish, and burned at the stake by the Spanish without a whiff of him. Had something happened to him? Aziraphale frowned at the Thames. Had Hell found out about the Arrangement after all?

“Stop worrying,” Aziraphale said aloud, causing one of the pustulent peasants to curse him for indifference. If Hell had discovered the arrangement, they certainly wouldn’t have missed the chance to cast down one of Heaven’s angels. More likely Crowley was up to something, and avoiding Aziraphale while he worked it out. He’d disappeared before. Once, he’d been gone for nearly a century, and turned up taking smug credit for the East-West schism (though he’d never satisfactorily explained his role to Aziraphale). This was probably the same thing. But if Crowley  _ was _ up to something, wasn’t it his duty to go search it out so he could more properly thwart it?

No. He was too busy to go searching for a demon. There was far too much work to be done here. Righteous work.  _ Angelic _ work. The kind Crowley would just undo. So it was better, after all, that Crowley wasn’t here. It  _ was _ better. He cured the cursing peasant and tried cleaning a section of the river, which would be refilled with refuse before the end of the day. The last thing he needed was a rogue demon on top of everything else.

_ London, 1381 _

“But I don’t understand,” said Aziraphale. “Shouldn’t we be supporting the common good of mankind?”

“Yes, when the common good of mankind aligns with order and stability,” explained Gabriel with an increasingly strained smile. “The Peasants’ Revolt does not.”

“But,” said Aziraphale, “they have had to pay an awful lot of taxes for a war that doesn’t seem to be ending anytime soon. And that’s on top of the famine and the plague. Perhaps you haven’t read the Ordinance of Laborers - they’ve essentially legalized slavery!”

“It’s not slavery,” said Gabriel tersely. “It’s serfdom. They’re completely different.”

“It’s just,” Aziraphale soldiered on, trying not to look at Gabriel, whose eyelid had started twitching, “I think perhaps we could do more good by improving their living conditions  _ before _ they turn to violence. We could maybe, er, try to turn back the Ordinance, so they’re paid a living --”

“Enough, Aziraphale!” said Gabriel. “Wat Tyler is a demonic agent. Do your job, and  _ thwart _ him.”

Aziraphale mumbled assent at the floor and vanished.

“The thing is,” he told the surprised peasant in whose living room he had just reappeared, “the thing  _ is _ , I know he wouldn’t tell me to do anything wrong, but sometimes I have trouble seeing how what he says is quite  _ right _ .”

“Demon!” said the peasant, snatching up the fire poker.

“Oh dear, I wouldn’t go  _ that _ far,” said Aziraphale in a tone of shock. “That’s practically sacrilegious. No, all I meant was, sometimes it just takes me a bit to understand what part of these good deeds is actually, you know, good.”

The peasant, who’d stood stunned for a good thirty seconds upon realizing that his poker had turned into a limp fish, decided to bodily rush the angel instead. “Oh, calm down,” said Aziraphale, and froze the man in his tracks. “I am  _ not _ a demon. And why are you still here, instead of revolting with the rest of your comrades? Or…”

He trailed off, remembering Gabriel’s parting words about Wat Tyler being a demonic agent. Now that Aziraphale thought about it, it was suspicious that a mortal had managed to drum up support so efficiently in such a short amount of time. Tearing down London would be just the sort of thing Hell would be in for. And, if Aziraphale admitted it, leading underlings to question their overbearing masters was just the sort of thing one demon in particular would very much enjoy. “Is  _ that _ where he’s been? Plotting rebellion for a whole century?” he asked the peasant with half-feigned frustration. “That would be just like him. I suppose I’d better go and see, hadn’t I?”

He snapped his fingers and vanished, leaving the poor peasant unsure whether he’d had a divine visitation or simply too much to drink with lunch.

“Crowley!” yelled Aziraphale, shouting to be heard over the din of peasants employed breaking down the doors to the Tower of London. “Crowley! Are you up there?”

“Who t’hell’s Crowley?” said one of the men next to him. “Some lord’s taken your wife?”

“Dear goodness, no,” said Aziraphale. “And that sort of practice is exactly why - oh, never mind. You haven’t seen, ah, Wat Tyler around here, have you?”

“Up there,” said the man, pointing with his hoe. Aziraphale thanked him, blessed his extended family with an abundant harvest, and miracled himself a path through the crowd, shouting alternately for Crowley and Tyler. Eventually he reached the man, who was exhorting a contingent with a battering ram to keep battering “for land and liberty.”

“There you are!” said Aziraphale, tapping the man’s shoulder and standing back with a frown. “I was beginning to think you’d - oh.”

The man who turned around was most certainly not Crowley, and Aziraphale had to admit he wasn’t sure why he’d believed the demon would ever dye his hair. “What d’ye want?” growled Tyler.

“Nothing,” said Aziraphale, backing away. “Looking for a - for someone, that’s all. You haven’t happened to see a demon around here anywhere, have you?”

Tyler eyed him for a moment and then, deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble, returned to the battering. Aziraphale tsked in frustration. He knew he was supposed to stop Tyler, but if Tyler wasn’t actually a demon, and Crowley wasn’t lurking around waiting to gloat, he couldn’t believe Tyler was actually a demonic agent, which meant he didn’t actually need to stop him. What he  _ wanted _ to do was talk to someone who wouldn’t ignore or try to stab him the minute he asked for a little explanation. What he wouldn’t admit was that the only person who fit the bill was the same person for whom he’d torn up to the Tower of London in the first place. The same person who’d now been missing for...

“You’re being ridiculous,” he told himself. “If Hell had found him, you would know.” The only reason to find Crowley was to make sure he didn’t need any immediate thwarting. Otherwise, the demon’s whereabouts and welfare didn’t concern him at all.

Only, it had been a  _ very _ long time since he’d had a sensible conversation.

_ Agincort, 1415 _

Aziraphale missed his flaming sword. He didn’t regret giving it away, of course - she  _ had _ been expecting - but he couldn’t help feeling a little sad every time he hoisted a blade that didn’t whumph into incandescence. He almost considered miracling a couple sparks onto its rusted edge for old time’s sake, but he hardly needed to be sainted  _ again _ . 

Besides, the English hardly needed encouragement. It was turning into a bit of a rout. As usual, miracles didn’t have much to do with it. Aziraphale had spent most of his angelic energy refilling the cellars of the farmhouses raided on the march. The peasants hadn’t asked to be involved in this. He’d given Henry a sort of pep talk the previous night, but that wasn’t exactly miraculous. Otherwise, he’d been trying to stay out of it. Heaven might have officially thrown in its lot with England, but Aziraphale couldn’t quite bring himself to support yet another war.

An arrow - an  _ English _ arrow - thudded into the ground near his foot, and he jumped back. “Really!” he said, looking around for the muddled archer. “How rude! Oh --”

He cut off as a second arrow narrowly missed his ear. He supposed he had gotten out in front of the rest of the army. He looked to the advancing French in their weighty armor, behind him at the ill-equipped English longbowmen, and down at his own miracle-polished plate. “Oh, for Heaven’s - I’m not French!” he shouted at the longbowmen. “I’m one of you! Stop shooting --”

A third arrow froze half an inch from his face as the noise of battle somehow ground to a stop. “ _ Now _ what?” said Aziraphale, then realized how insubordinate this would sound to Gabriel or Sandalphon or whoever they’d sent after him this time. “I mean - ah - to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Pleasure?” said a very un-angelic drawl as a very un-angelic figure slunk out from between the rows of archers. “You flatter me, angel, I thought we weren’t even acquaintances yet.”

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, breaking into an unconscious smile of relief. “You’re not dead!”

“Eh… doesn’t look like it,” said Crowley. He was also wearing armor, though it was significantly more rusted and dented than Aziraphale’s. His helmet, topped with an unnecessary black feather, dangled from one hand. He’d cut his hair again. Or maybe it had just grown out? Aziraphale unconsciously raised a hand to his own hair, which he’d let go a bit during the plague. “You nearly were, though. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Wha - oh.” Aziraphale swatted the forgotten arrow out of the way of his face. He felt an unexpected lightness at the lifting of a burden he hadn’t known he’d been carrying. Doubtless, he told himself, it was just that Crowley’s presence confirmed Hell hadn’t found out about the Arrangement. He swallowed his smile and tried to look stern. “What are you doing here, anyway? Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory?” 

Crowley sighted one of the archer’s bows and aimed it a bit to the left. “Defeat?” he scoffed. “We’re on Henry’s side.”

“You’re not!” Aziraphale gasped.

“What, surprised we might actually win one?”

“ _ We’re _ on Henry’s side!” said Aziraphale. “I thought you  _ hated _ the British!”

“Mm, only sometimes,” said Crowley, sauntering around fallen horses on the way to Aziraphale. He gestured around at the battlefield. “Surprised your lot put up with this. It’s a lot of murdering, isn’t it?”

“Well…” said Aziraphale.

Crowley, now prowling around Aziraphale, leaned in to brush a feather from the Angel's shoulder. "Almost makes you wonder," he said, "whether they even know what they're doing."

"Oh, stop," said Aziraphale, brushing Crowley's hand away. They'd picked up, it seemed, right where they'd left off, as though the past century had passed in an hour. Next Aziraphale would bring up ineffability, and Crowley would scoff and say something about the famine or thumbscrews or the invention of pointy shoes, and Aziraphale would have to defend it, and Crowley would point out the holes in his reasoning, and then both of them would be too drunk to keep on arguing so they'd just give up and go home, each hoping maybe they'd gotten through that time and knowing they hadn't. Aziraphale could already see Crowley gearing up to ask how the highly effective longbow could be considered at all angelic. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Somehow, he didn’t feel much like arguing with Crowley. They were hardly in a prime location for a theological argument. And besides, sometimes he couldn’t help thinking that Crowley was - that Crowley might be --

“Where have you been, Crowley?” he said instead. 

Crowley’s prowling paused for a fraction of a second. “Well,” he said, “now that you ask…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright kids the 14th century really did suck so instead let's talk about the SLAP OF ANAGNI aka my new favorite historical event:
> 
> \- Background: France and the Pope were in a really big argument (most of the Middle Ages is countries arguing with the Pope)
> 
> \- The Pope made some declaration saying everyone had to listen to him and France didn't want to
> 
> \- France sent an army to kidnap the Pope (no joke)
> 
> \- The guards told the Pope to resign or else
> 
> \- Drama queen Pope said "I would sooner DIE" (this is a DIRECT QUOTE)
> 
> \- The French guard literally SLAPPED THE POPE (!!!!!)
> 
> \- I mean
> 
> \- Can you imagine the balls that guy had
> 
> \- SLAPPED the POPE
> 
> \- Anyway the town is still famous for it and don't let anyone tell you the 14th century is entirely boring.


	4. In which Crowley has had a difficult time

_ Neva River, 1301 _

“Actually Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Crowley barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He could see the ship receding into the distance behind the angel’s shoulder. “Can it wait?” he asked. “I’ll do your next two trips, how about that?”

“Well, that’s the trouble,” said Aziraphale, who looked as uncomfortable as Crowley had ever seen him. He pulled his white furs closer to protect against the icy wind and shivered. “I’m not sure we should be doing this anymore.”

“Angel --” said Crowley.

“It’s dishonest. And i know that’s fine for you,” he said over Crowley’s interruption, “but I can’t condone such duplicitous behavior.”

“Fine, alright,” said Crowley, “but the ship --”

“And the actions themselves!” Aziraphale shivered again. His eyelashes were starting to frost over. “You know, the first time I had to do one of your temptations, I couldn’t sleep for a  _ month _ .”

“Do you ever sleep?” said Crowley, momentarily distracted by the thought that the angel might have picked up a few additional habits.

“It’s not right,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’m an  _ angel _ . You’re a  _ demon _ . We’re meant to stick to our own sides!”

The ship was starting to fade into the fog, but Crowley’s attention had turned fully to Aziraphale. “Are we?” he said. “Our own sides? Mine the pits of villainy, yours the paragon of virtue?”

“I --”

“What’s your side been up to lately?” Crowley interrupted him. “Start any new crusades?”

“That’s not the point!”

“And what about this invasion?” Crowley continued, starting to pace through the snow. “Whose side were you supposed to be on?”

“The Russians,” said Aziraphale, “obviously.”

“So was I,” said Crowley, “obviously.”

“But - but Daniel’s starting churches!”

“Yes, and he’s also cutting off noses. Whose side do you think  _ he’s _ on?”

Aziraphale tried to cross his arms, but his furs were too thick, so he settled for stamping his foot instead. “They’re humans! They don’t have sides!”

“Exactly!” said Crowley triumphantly, throwing up his arms. “They’ve got free will! No matter what  _ we _ do, they’re going to keep on doing whatever the hell they want, which  _ means, _ ” he said, pointing a finger in Aziraphale’s reddened face, “nothing we do matters at all.”

“Stop it, Crowley,” said Aziraphale to the demon, who did not even slow down.

“So,” he continued, on a roll now, “we might as well keep trading off. We might as well just bugger off to Tahiti, for all they care.”

“Crowley --”

“Not as though our sides give a damn about --”

“Crowley,  _ stop. _ ”

The desperation in the angel’s voice finally brought Crowley to a halt. He’d plowed a deep trench through the growing snowdrifts, which were now nearly to Aziraphale’s knees. The angel’s jaw, though quivering from cold, was set in determination. “What?” said Crowley, a little harsher than he’d meant. “Too much for your angelic sensibilities?”

Aziraphale shook his head, dislodging the snow that had built up along his shoulders. “This is exactly why I - why this needs to stop.”

“Angel --”

“Stop -  _ talking _ , Crowley,” said Aziraphale, holding up a mittened hand to stop Crowley’s advance. “I told you, it’s  _ over _ .”

There was a note of finality in the angel’s voice that hadn’t been present the last three times Aziraphale had tried to break this off. Crowley pretended he hadn’t heard it. “It’s not,” he said. “It’s only --”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale in a tone that made Crowley colder than any winter blizzard, “it’s.  _ Over _ .”

Crowley swallowed. He found himself at an unusual loss of words. “Aziraphale,” he tried to say, but his voice cracked into the winter wind. The angel watched him a moment longer, then shook his head, turned, and trudged off into the night. 

“Fine,” said Crowley to himself as the angel vanished from sight. “Whatever. ‘It’s not right!’ ” he mimicked in a high voice that sounded nothing like Aziraphale’s. “You know what’s not right? Stranding someone in a blizzard just because they - blech.” He mimed throwing up. “Idiot angel. Better off without him anyway.” He turned in a full circle, surveying the now completely white horizon for any signs of life. “Damn it, where’s the harbor gone?”

_ Somewhere in Russia, 1303 _

The problem, thought Crowley, huddled in the hollow of a tree to shield himself from yet another snowstorm, was Hastur. More accurately, the problem was Hastur’s toad. If Hastur’s toad wasn’t so phenomenally ugly, Crowley wouldn’t have felt the need to comment on its health, and if Crowley hadn’t felt the need to comment on its health, Hastur wouldn’t have felt the need to reduce his miracle allotment from infinite to three. “Generous,” Crowley had said. “Do they roll over, or…?”

“Roll over?” said Hastur with a yellow grin. “You’ll be lucky if they renew.”

Atop Hastur’s head, the toad gave a croak that sounded like a cough. “You sure you shouldn’t get that checked out?” said Crowley.

“Get out!” said Hastur, though Crowley could have sworn he saw him patting the toad with a worried air a few seconds later.

So Crowley had gotten out and, as usual, proceeded to ignore Hastur’s orders in favor of whatever struck his fancy. He bummed around China for a bit, tried to search out who’d offed Kublai, and took full credit for the invention of the cannon when he’d really just been in the background marveling at matrix multiplication. When no one was watching, he snuck a couple printed calendars out of the Imperial Library as a souvenir. Maybe the angel would be interested. Thinking of Aziraphale, he hopped a caravan westward and spent the next several months trying to pretend he knew the difference between cardamom and cloves. He dipped out in Italy, checked in on the Pope, got rowdy at the Jubilee (an excellent idea, really, and one he wished he’d thought of himself), and only then, after he’d had his fill of papal wine, did he miracle himself up to Novgorod, where he’d been supposed to be this whole time.

At which point he realized Hastur hadn’t been joking.

Three miracles.  _ Three miracles _ . The demon was mad. How was anyone supposed to survive on such a measly allotment? How had  _ he _ survived? He thought back. He remembered using one to turn all the gunpowder stored in one of the Khan’s barracks into fireworks. He’d been hoping to stick around to see that one light up, but the new guy was getting a bit tetchy, and Crowley couldn’t afford to get discorporated. He’d used a second one in Rome to cut the prices of Jubilee food, partly to defund the Pope and partly because the contents of the wallet he’d stolen were only sufficient for three cups of wine. The third had gotten him up to the Neva so he didn’t have to sneak past the Mongols. And now… 

He snapped again, staring down at the stirrup of the horse in front of him. Nothing happened. He was used to a demonic spark tingling down to his toes, but now he felt nothing at all. He imagined he could hear Hastur laughing below him. “Oh, shut up,” he muttered to the absent demon. He automatically reached into the air to summon a knife and then remembered he couldn’t. “Herm,” he said to the horse.

“Neigh,” said the horse, judgmentally.

“You shut up, too,” said Crowley, and decided that if he couldn’t cut the stirrup, he might as well take the whole saddle.

It took most of the night to sneak all the saddles out of the Swedish stables and dump them into the river. By the end, despite the chill, Crowley was sweating and miserable. He couldn’t have explained why he hadn’t just given up after the first. He had, after all, waited a good three years to come bother the Swedes in the first place. But he’d be damned - in a manner of speaking - if he was going to let Hastur throw him off this easily. “Three miracles,” he muttered, traipsing off in search of the Swedes’ grain supplies. “ _ Three miracles! _ If I get out of here, I’m going to rip that toad off your head and stuff him down your…  _ Now _ what…”

The storerooms were locked. Crowley, keyless, miracleless, and posessing only the faintest knowledge of how to actually pick a lock, settled for throwing himself against the door in a vague attempt to knock it down. The door did not oblige. Crowley rubbed his shoulder and made a face at it. “Bollocks to you, too,” he said. 

His shoulder really hurt. He peeled back a couple layers of his musty, oversized furs - he’d nicked them from a saddlebag in hopes of miracling them into style and was now just hoping no one else saw him wearing them - and recoiled. The skin had turned  _ purple _ . Was skin supposed to do that? He prodded it with a finger and had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling aloud. His tongue starting bleeding. He hadn’t known tongues could bleed. For Hell’s sake, how were you s’posed to bandage a tongue? “Five thousand years,” he told the door, “ _ five thousand years _ , and my tongue’s never bled  _ once _ , and now…”

He trailed off as a new thought set in. His body, it seemed, was reacting more human-ly than usual. He’d never really been hurt before, but he’d chalked that up to good luck. Now it appeared that was due to miracles, too, albeit unconscious ones. The remnants of his mood plummeted through the bottom of his stomach, and he gulped, suddenly very aware that he was unarmed, in the middle of a fortress, during a siege. 

As if on cue, three Swedish soldiers marched round the corner, caught sight of him, and started brandishing spears and shouting in unintelligible Swedish. Crowley raised his hands slowly in surrender. “Er… English?” he said.

The soldiers stopped shouting, looked at each other, and then turned back to Crowley. One of them started up yelling again. “Worth a try,” Crowley shrugged, and turned to run.

Since he hadn’t done any cardio in a good few millennia, this was a spectacular failure. Only the approach of the Novgorods saved him from immediate discorporation. As it was, he spent the whole siege locked in a jail cell, which was, of course, the last structure blown apart by the advancing army. “Took you long enough!” Crowley yelled out at the Novgorodians. Someone yelled something back. “What?” said Crowley, and then realized he couldn’t understand it anyway. What language did Novgorods speak, Novgorodian? Aziraphale would know. The angel had way too much time on his hands.

He clambered out through the disintegrated stone, taking great care not to scrape his newly vulnerable limbs. The fortress was a mess. Half of it was on fire, and the other half was blown to bits. It seemed excessive for such a minor outpost, but that was humans for you. He staggered through the dust. Where were the humans, anyway? There were plenty of dead ones, but the soldiers seemed to have gone. Surely they hadn’t all killed each other?

He hopped over the remnants of wall and ambled out towards the river. In the distance, black storm clouds warned of an imminent blizzard. “Just my luck,” Crowley muttered. “Now, where’ve they all… Oh, hello.”

The humans weren’t in the fortress because they’d all run out to their ships to avoid the oncoming storm. Only one red-sailed ship remained. Crowley thought idly about whether to poke a hole in its sail and strand it, and then he remembered he couldn’t, and  _ then _ he remembered that  _ he _ was likely to be stranded instead, and then he went into a bit of a panic. “Hey,” he said, tripping into a run across the snow, “hey! Wait up! Wait --”

The ship pushed back from the dock and slipped out into the icy water. “Wait, damn you!” Crowley yelled. “You -- Ahhhh!”

He’d seen, camouflaged against the white snow, the familiar outline of a very welcome figure. “Thank heav - thank hell - Aziraphale!” he panted, stumbling towards the angel.

“Oh, it’s you again,” said Aziraphale, and proceeded to betray him.

And that was the long and short of how he’d ended up hiding from unending winter in the hollow of this random tree.

_ Still somewhere in Russia, 1315 _

Why hadn’t he just  _ told _ Aziraphale he was in trouble? Aziraphale was an angel, for Hell’s sake. He was contractually obligated to lend a hand. But would he have considered it an evil deed to help a demon? Crowley gnashed his teeth, which was difficult with a half-frozen jaw, and tried to decide who he was more angry with, himself or the angel. It was very easy to be angry with himself and very difficult to be angry with Aziraphale. Frustrated, yes; driven to distraction by the angel’s inability to grasp basic facts; impatient beyond belief with the logic that papered over every question with a bland “ineffable.” Crowley hated the word “ineffable.” He empathized on a molecular level with the humans who spent their whole lives digging into meaningless mysteries - the wingspan of the average butterfly; the rotation of heavenly bodies; sublimation - because they couldn’t stop asking why. How anyone could take “ineffable” as an answer was beyond him. He’d thought even the angel was getting fed up with it - he’d really thought he was breaking through - and then Aziraphale had had to go and smash it to bits, just when they’d been starting - just when they’d been --

He threw a rock at the frozen pond with unnecessary force to turn himself from the train of thought. The ice cracked, and a fish jumped through the hole. “Show-off,” muttered Crowley. When he’d still been half-afraid of starving to death, he’d spent about three months trying to catch a fish. “Stupid, slippery bastards,” he said, tossing another rock in the fish’s general direction. 

He didn’t need food, drink, or sleep, and he didn’t think he was aging, but his injuries healed at a normal human pace. He’d have napped till Hastur gave in if not for the possibility of frostbite. Somehow he still hadn’t found any humans. He had no clue how to navigate, could rarely see the sun, and wasn’t sure he wanted to find civilization in this state anyway. Still, he was beginning to think maybe they’d all died out. Maybe he’d missed the apocalypse or something. Surely Beez would have sent a note. Unless Beez was dead, too. That was a mildly cheering thought. He sent a third rock skipping neatly across the surface. Five hops! He gave a little cheer. 

Eighteen years was a little long for Hastur to keep a grudge. Crowley wasn’t sure his memory lasted that long. He’d have gone back down and shaken a couple more miracles out of him if he could find a damn door. The doors were all in major cities, and Crowley certainly wasn’t. He threw the rest of his rocks in the river all at once and trudged back into the woods before night caught him exposed. Surely someone would find him soon. Miracle a carrier pigeon, or something. They wouldn’t leave him up here forever.

_ Maybe somewhere in Finland, 1325 _

Crowley was beginning to think they would leave him up there forever.

_ Probably still in Russia, 1332 _

“Guys?” said Crowley. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

No one answered.

_ Yep, still Russia, 1339 _

He’d been considering discorporation for a good few decades now but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He liked this body. And what if they were so angry at him for losing it that they never gave him any miracles again - or worse, stuck him on  _ desk _ duty? He shuddered. Even the wilderness was better than desk duty.

_ Frozen Hell, aka Russia, 1341 _

What would Aziraphale do in this situation? Eat some berries that turned out to be poisonous, probably. The angel was hopeless. A round-eyed, pink-cheeked idiot. A round-eyed, pink-cheeked, too-trusting, open-hearted, too-forgiving, always-smiling…

What had he been thinking about again?

_ I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-Russia (because it is), 1345 _

“This winter,” Crowley announced to no one and nothing in particular, “is ineffable.”

_ You guessed it - Russia, 1351 _

“Crowley?” said a voice that wasn’t Crowley’s.

“Nnergh,” said Crowley.

“Crowley, is that you?” said Pestilence.

Crowley pinched himself in several places to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Uhhhh, yeah,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair as though it would help him look any more presentable. Not that Pestilence, covered in open sores, looked any better. 

Pestilence shuffled closer. Crowley nearly gagged at the stench that followed them. They scratched their head, and a tuft of stringy hair floated away. “What are you doing all the way out here?” they asked in a rasping voice.

Crowley shrugged. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“Oh, I’m coming off a plague run.” Pestilence broke into a toothless grin. “You should’ve seen it. The Silk Road’s a wonder. By the time they realized I’d broken out of the East, I was halfway across Europe. And then…” They itched an oozing scab on their elbow with a dreamy smile. “Famine’ll have a hard time topping  _ that _ .”

“Sounds impressive,” said Crowley, who was vibrating with the effort of keeping himself from running for the hills. “Where are you headed next? Back East?”

Pestilence yawned, giving Crowley a terrifying view of several flies hanging from their uvula. “I’m doing one last sweep through Germany and then taking a vacation. It’s not easy being Pestilence, you know. The fleas aren’t hard, but the rats are just out of control.”

Crowley made a noise that was meant to indicate agreement and not that he’d just noticed Pestilence’s left ear was falling off.

“Good to see you, though,” said Pestilence. “It’s been a while. We should catch up.”

What, thought Crowley, could they possibly have to catch up on? Crowley generally miracled himself off before Pestilence could get within a mile of him. Only Aziraphale would have the patience to sit through Pestilence’s play-by-play depiction of the spread of smallpox. Crowley swallowed his nausea and forced himself to ask, “Actually, d’you think we could catch up now? Love to hitch a ride, if you don’t mind.”

Pestilence brightened. “Of course I don’t mind! That would be fun!”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, “real fun. Urm - d’you think you could just sort of miracle me along with you, then?”

The question was lost in a coughing fit that Crowley could have sworn last an hour. Finally, just when he’d about given up and decided to take his chances back in the woods, Pestilence said, “Sure! I know a great tavern down by the Danube, they’ve got two for one pitchers and a whole colony of rats under the floorboards…”

How, Crowley wondered, in the last fifty years, had he  _ still _ not managed to recover from all his bad karma?

_ Finally Not Russia, 1351 _

“Crowley!”

“Ah!” said Crowley, turning to see Beelzebub about three inches away and giving them his grandest smile. “Just the demon I wanted to see!”

Beelzebub, arms folded and face as closed as Crowley had ever seen it, scowled. “Where the Hell have you been?”

“I wanted to have a word with you,” said Crowley, starting to tap Beelzebub on the chest and then thinking better of you, “about miracles.”

“You mizzzed eighty staff meetings.”

“Specifically, about miracle allotment. Any chance that could be raised in the near future? Or, urm, removed altogether?”

“You haven’t reported any temptations since…” Beelzebub checked their clipboard. “Fifty-one yearzzz ago.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to talk you about,” said Crowley. “See, I’ve been --”

“And it wazzzn’t even a miracle,” said Beelzebub, tapping the clipboard with a pen that looked a human finger. “You just wrote, ‘Jubilee rocks!’ and drew a picture of Ligur wearing the Pope’s hat.”

“Mmyeah,” said Crowley, accidentally grinning at the memory. “Looks good on him, though.”

“Crowley,” said Beelzebub.

“Yes?” said Crowley.

“You’re fired.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped. “What?”

Beelzebub stuck the pen, which was probably a real finger, back behind their ear. “You heard me. I’m reassigning you.”

“But --”

“Ligur will take over your temptationzzz until we find a real replacement.”

“You can’t --”

“Desk duty,” said Beelzebub. “And if you don’t stop complaining, it’ll be on a  _ lower _ floor.”

Crowley transitioned his half-flung complaint into a pleading glance.

“Go find a desk,” said Beelzebub over their shoulder. “And get comfortable. It could be a while.”

_ Somewhere Worse Than Russia, 1373 _

Desk duty was definitely worse than Russia.

_ Hell, Figuratively and Literally, 1385 _

He couldn’t even nap down here.

_ If Only It Were Russia, 1392 _

Aziraphale was probably having a grand century without him. He’d probably performed loads of miracles. He was probably spewing miracles. He’d probably drunk all of Crowley’s wine and gone to the Greek theater without him. Crowley knocked over his ink bottle for the fourth time that morning, reached to miracle it clean, and remembered he couldn’t. He groaned at the ceiling. The groan was immediately lost in the general cacophony of groaning, moaning, lamenting, and otherwise begging for nonexistent salvation. Crowley buried his head in his hands. 

If Ligur so much as  _ looked _ at Aziraphale, Crowley thought, he would rip the chameleon off Ligur’s stupid head and use it to strangle him.

_ Russia’s Armpit, 1407 _

In fifty-six years of work, he’d filled out exactly two forms. The second had been an accident. It had been underneath the first, and he hadn’t noticed the ink had bled through.

_ Why Can’t It Be Russia, 1415 _

“Crowley!”

“Mmph!” said Crowley, jumping up from an attempted nap and scattering the growing pile of incomplete papers across the floor.

Hastur and his stupid toad scowled at him. “You’re wanted.”

“What now?” said Crowley, rubbing his elbow where he’d bumped it on the chair arm. “Someone file a 4015b in the 4016 drawer again?”

“No,” said Hastur. He pointed towards the ceiling. “You’re wanted  _ up there _ .”

Crowley swallowed. He looked from Hastur to his toad and back again. “I’m wanted… on Earth?” he said, not even daring to make any jokes about it.

Hastur nodded. Crowley waited for Hastur to start laughing and say it was all a joke. Not that Hastur was known for his jokes, practical or otherwise, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious. “Did they say why?” he asked.

Hastur shrugged. “They just said to report.”

Crowley glanced at the ceiling as though waiting for it to open and drop a ton of lava on him (which it had, on one very memorable Tuesday). “And how many miracles have I got this time, four and a half?” he asked, a bit bitterly.

Hastur’s scowl deepened. “Beelzebub said you’re to have the normal amount.”

“Really? D’you piss her off worse than I did?”

“Shut up,” said Hastur. 

Only the looming possibility of a return to lifetime desk duty could have convinced Crowley to drop the subject, though he had every intention of bringing it up at a future date. “Well… alright,” he said. “Pretty sure I still remember the way.”

His heart - his about-to-be-corporeal heart - beat faster in his chest as he ambled towards the exit. He half-expected Hastur to run after him and say it had been a mistake after all, of course they hadn’t changed their minds, but Hastur didn’t move. He reached the door and swallowed. What was it like out there? How much had he missed? Had Ligur managed to screw the whole thing up, or were the humans still proceeding business-as-usual?

And - his breath skipped abruptly - how would Aziraphale - would he still - had he - He closed his eyes and redirected the question. How many times had Aziraphale almost gotten himself killed over the last century, and how much of it had been the angel’s own idiotic fault?

“Are you going or not?” said Hastur from behind him.

“Hold your toad, I’m going,” said Crowley, and took a deep breath, and stepped through the door.


	5. In which there is a extraordinary amount of alcohol

_ Agincort, 1415 _

“...I’ve been napping,” Crowley said.

“Napping?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Yeah. Napping.” He picked up a fallen shield and let it drop with a clang. “You should try it sometime.”

“You fell asleep for a  _ century? _ ”

“Yeah.” Crowley still hadn’t looked at Aziraphale. “Why, were you hoping someone from Heaven had finally offed me? Be a feather in your angelic wings, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course not!” said Aziraphale, his armor rattling in indignation. “I was only --”

“And I haven’t spilled your secrets, either,” said Crowley bitterly. “You made it quite clear how you felt about that little sordid chapter.”

“That’s not --”

“Anyway,” Crowley said, making an effort to straighten up and immediately falling back into a slump, “it’s getting on - I’d better restart this battle, hadn’t I?  _ Pleasure _ seeing you, angel.” He swept Aziraphale an exaggerated bow, armor clanking, and raised his hand to snap time back into focus.

“Wait!” said Aziraphale in desperation.

Crowley’s fingers froze halfway through the snap. He raised one eyebrow. “Yes?”

Aziraphale twisted his hands together. He’d done something wrong, but he didn’t know what. How were you supposed to react when your sworn enemy had the nerve to vanish for a century without even leaving a note and then turn up again, fighting for the same side, just to  _ save your life -- _

“Have you ever,” said Aziraphale, “tried a drink called hypocras?”

Crowley’s hand lowered a few inches. “I have not.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “W-would you like to?”

The hand dropped a few inches more. “Depends,” said Crowley. “Is it going to be as awful as that beer you made me try in Flanders?”

“Oh, dear, I hope not,” said Aziraphale, shuddering. “No, it’s spiced wine. It’s sweet. I think you’d like it.”

“You think a demon has a sweet tooth?” said Crowley with a smirk.

Aziraphale tsked. “If you’re going to be difficult about it, we can just stay and fight with the rest of them.”

“No, no,” said Crowley, stepping back towards Aziraphale and snapping the battle back into the present. Immediately, the air roared to life with the clang of swords and the yells of oncoming cavalry. Crowley grinned at Aziraphale, and the noise of battle faded into the background. “So,” he said, “where does one find this hypocras?”

Crowley hadn’t had alcohol in one hundred and fourteen years. It was even better than he’d remembered. 

Although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, least of all himself, the same was true of the company.

_ Later... _

“Crowley! I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“You sent a note?”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t think - I didn’t expect it to actually find you.”

“You addressed it to ‘The Demon Crowley, Esquire,’ and miracled it straight to my letterbox. Did you think Hell would snatch it from the stratosphere or something? And why  _ es _ quire? I hate that word, sounds like someone telling you how to spell it.”

“What do you go by, then, Count Crowley? Or have you wrangled yourself another knighthood?”

“Count Crowley? Sounds like the villain in one of your romances, doesn’t it? What d’you go by, anyway, oh Principality of the Eastern Gate?”

“Oh, stop - well, if you must know - technically I’m an earl, but Gabriel doesn’t like it.”

“An  _ earl? _ Earl of what, giving your sword away?”

“No! Of Surrey. Sort of an accident, really.”

“How d’you accidentally become an earl?”

“Long story.”

“I have time.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have sent the note.”

“Oh, sit down and have a drink, angel, I’m only joking. What’d you want, anyway, besides a free beer?”

“Well…”

“Yes?”

“By any chance - just out of idle curiosity - have you recently received orders to go to France?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“And do your orders by any chance concern a certain young woman whose name begins with a J?”

“As a matter of fact, they do.”

“Am I correct, then, in assuming that whatever my orders are, yours are to do the exact opposite?”

“That is quite probable.”

“Hm.”

“Hm, indeed.”

“...Crowley.”

“Yes, Aziraphale?”

“Well… it seems a waste of a trip, then, doesn’t it? If we’re just going to sort of… cancel each other out?”

“It might.”

“Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I’ve - I’ve got sort of a thing going on in Eton. It’s at rather a delicate stage, and I’d hate for the whole thing to fall apart.”

“Sounds tragic.”

“Yes, it’s really just not a good time for a trip, you know?”

“Angel, if there’s something you’re trying to say, can you try and work it out before last call?”

“It’s just - I was thinking - well - you know how, a couple of times, if both of us were meant to be someplace together, only one of us would go?”

“Yes, and you’ve made your feelings on that quite clear.”

“I’m - I’ve been - I might have reconsidered.”

“... _ Have _ you?”

“Well… It does seem sort of a waste of effort, doesn’t it?”

“You could say that, yes.”

“Always sending us off right when we’re in the middle of something.”

“The timing does tend to be unfortunate.”

“And - don’t tell  _ anyone _ I said this, alright?”

“I’ll keep mum at my monthly breakfasts with Michael.”

“Do you actually --”

“No! D’you really think I’d - what does the woman even eat, sawdust?”

“Oh. Good. I mean. I just wanted to say. Sometimes I’m not sure the orders they give us really - really make a lot of sense.”

“Finally cottoned on, have you?”

“Well, not  _ always! _ Sometimes they’re quite right. It’s just, you know, the college - I’m  _ so close _ to getting Henry to agree --”

“You don’t have to keep going on, angel, I’ll do it.”

“Oh,  _ will _ you?”

“Yeah, been fancying a trip south anyway. I’ve just run out of Burgundy.”

“Th - well, should I thank you? Or…”

“Nah, but you owe me. I’ll address the note to the Earl Aziraphale, shall I?”

“Oh, please don’t.”

“The  _ Earl Aziraphale! _ And how many times have you been sainted now, twelve?”

“Crowley!”

“My turn for the tab, then?”

“I think so. I’ve lost count. Oh, don’t forget the tip.”

“You realize you’ve tipped him three hundred percent.”

“He’s a nice young man!”

“He spat in your beer!”

“Because  _ you _ tried to trip him!”

“Well, he didn’t break anything, did he?”

“Don’t look so disappointed.”

“Alright, till next time, angel?”

“I suppose. Bring me back a burgundy, will you?”

“Course.”

“And, Crowley?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“...Thank you.”

“Nnergh,” said Crowley, and vanished.


End file.
